


dispel the darkness

by jadeddiva



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:51:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3063380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadeddiva/pseuds/jadeddiva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows very little of this stupid, silly game that they all seem to be playing, but what she does know is that she wants to live. ASOS redux based on the idea of what would happen if Sansa learned how to play the game before she met Willas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dispel the darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas to housebaberatheon! Sorry that this became Sansa-centric but there’s Willas too! I’m playing with some of the events of ASOS because I think that some things might have shifted if other things happened. Title is hacked together from ‘Lo, how a rose e’er blooming’ and there is a blatant reference to The Young Victoria because how can you not with these two?

Sansa remembers few days as well as she remembers the day that Margaery Tyrell arrived in Kings Landing.   It is as if everything stopped moving (that is, nothing save for the snap of Tyrell banners in the breeze, green and gold a welcome change amidst all the Baratheon black and Lannister crimson), the people of the city holding their breath until the moment when she entered, and then letting loose with such a roar that the very city seemed to shake on it’s foundations.

 

There was no such welcome when she arrived to marry Joffrey, but even though the crowds cheer the Tyrell girl onward, even though they shout and yell while stuffing their faces full of bread, Sansa knows that the noise is more than just that.

 

It is her freedom, being shouted on the rooftops, being sung in the streets and in her bones.

 

She is free, she is free, by the Seven _she is free._

 

…

 

There are scars on her back from Joffrey’s vile Kingsguard, and there are scars on her heart from Joffrey himself, and yet Sansa bites her lip and clenches her fists, hidden in the fabric of her dress, when Margaery Tyrell is brought before the Iron Throne.   She does not cry out, does not protest, does not let the words that are in her throat escape, because Margaery Tyrell is young and beautiful and Sansa does not know her but she knows Joffrey, knows what a monster he is, and no one should suffer the same fate.

 

There is no honor in keeping silent, her father would tell her (but her father is dead now, his last lesson in telling the truth enough to still her tongue and silence her protests).

 

She keeps quiet, and bites down until her lip bleeds, until her fingernails leave marks in her palms that do not fade immediately (she knows very little of this stupid, silly game that they all seem to be playing, but what she does know is that she wants to live.)

 

…

Freedom always comes with a price – this is a lesson that Sansa has learned the hard way, though the Tyrells are far kinder instructors than the Lannisters ever were.

 

She is invited to dine with them and as the minstrels play and the fool dances, Margaery’s grandmother, Olenna Tyrell – the Queen of Thorns they call her, and Sansa wonders why – leans over her cup and tells her, “You are just a pawn in a larger game than you have ever imagined, and if you don’t learn to play you will be swept off the board.”

 

Sansa has been in Kings Landing long enough to know that nothing comes for free, and everyone can be bought, and she wonders what the price will be help her. So she smiles, and nods, and decides that perhaps she needs to learn this game after all.

 

The price of freedom (from Joffrey, from the Lannisters) is words: stories about Joffrey, bits and pieces of information that she has gathered in her time here in the capital. She gives it, because the more that the Tyrells know, the kinder they are to her, and the less she sees of the Lannisters.

 

…

 

Her first instructor is Margaery.

 

The Tyrell girl is kind, and sweet, and when Sansa watches her as she moves among the various lords and ladies of the capital, as she says the right things at just the right time, Sansa learns more than she expected.

 

Margaery teaches her even more pleasantries that she can say to the men of the court, teaches her how to say things she doesn’t mean without her eyes betraying her (there is no way that the girl is excited about marrying Joffrey, not after Sansa has told her and her grandmother the truth). But she says things so easily, and with such confidence and sweetness, that everyone believes her, even Sansa.

 

Sansa spends hours staring into her mirror, telling lies to her reflection, until she manages to convince herself that she is happy here, that she is safe her, that she is the daughter of a traitor and Joffrey is her rightful king. She practices, first on her maids and then on the lesser lords and ladies who she interacts with in the Tyrells circle.   With a steady smile, she finds she can convince them of her words.

 

(She catches the Queen of Thorns watching her from the corner of the room, a sly smile on her face and she wonders if she has truly fooled them all).

 

…

 

The Tyrells make promises that she hopes they intend to keep them about Highgarden, about the heir to the Tyrell name, about puppies and gardens and horses and hawks.   Margaery tells her about Willas, who is kind and smart and _what of his leg?_ (her expectations about marriage have drastically decreased in the past year, and she no longer cares if he is handsome, just that he is kind and not Joffrey). She listens, even if she does not trust what they say – even if she waits for them to throw her to the lions, or for the lions to snatch her back (the Lannisters don’t seem to like other people playing with what they consider to be theirs).

 

It happens sooner than she thinks it.

 

One morning she is woken up, dressed in fine robes, and taken from her rooms with an armed escort, maids dressed in crimson and gold trailing behind.

 

“Is Lord Willas here?” she asks the maids. “Am I to be married already?” She is not prepared for this, so soon – she had not thought that it would happen, not in the end, because nothing every happens to her like it’s supposed to (a hard lesson that she has finally managed to learn). Her palms are sweaty and she wipes them on the fine silk of her dress.

 

No one answers her.

 

Halfway through the halls, Lady Olenna stops them.

 

“And where are you taking the Lady Sansa?” she asks, hands folded in front of her, head tilted to the left. “Certainly not off to be married, I hope?” she asks the maids and the guards. They remain silent, and passive when Lady Olenna steps into them and takes her hand.

 

“Come with me, Sansa,” she says, leading her down the hall, leaving the escort behind. “Lord Tywin thinks that he can steal all of the pretty girls of the land for his house. He needs to learn that just because he wants something does not mean that he will get it.”

 

She says this last part loudly, in clipped tones that echo through the halls, and Sansa wonders just what it is about her that any of them would want. Her father was a traitor, her brother is in open rebellion, and she is just a little girl lost in a game she barely understands.

 

Lady Olenna takes her to the Tyrell’s quarters, issuing orders that a room is to be made for Lady Sansa, and that she is to have pen and paper and a rider as fast as possible. Margaery is sent for, but before she can arrive, Lady Olenna sits Sansa down.

 

“I will speak plainly, child,” Lady Olenna says. “Tywin Lannister would see you married off to that imp of his. That is where you were being hurried away to – a secret wedding.”

 

Sansa’s stomach falls at these words, and Lady Olenna continues. “Tywin Lannister has neglected to think about just what repercussions his actions may have on this war.”

 

“But why do I matter?” Sansa asks, frustrated and angry and shaking at the thought that she was to be married off. “I am a Stark, and yet my name and my house are nothing, not now, not with my brother raising his banners against the Lannisters.”

 

Lady Olenna smiles sadly at her. “You are a Stark, and that will always matter most of all, even if your brother is in rebellion and Winterfell is taken. You will always be a Stark, regardless of who you marry, and when this scuffle is over and one side wins, there must once more be a Stark in Winterfell if whoever rules this wretched city wishes to rule the North.”

 

She squeezes Sansa’s shoulder as she leaves the room, and Sansa stares at the gardens, the sounds of the fountains and the breeze blowing through the trees.   She is a Stark, and it seems that even though her family name is slandered, it still has enough worth for whatever the Tyrells and Lannisters seem to be fighting over.

 

Margaery arrives with her gaggle of cousins and they flutter around Sansa, trying to comfort her. They bring their singers and their fool, and the afternoon is spent in such distraction that Sansa forgets she was about to be married, forgets that she is still a pawn in the game.   Lady Olenna does not return that night, but neither do the Lannisters come for her, and for the first time in forever, Sansa feels safe.

 

…

 

Three things happen, one after the other.

 

First, the wagons filled with food from the Reach slow down.

 

Riders from the caravan blame the rain. They blame wheels stuck in the mud and horses throwing shoes, but Sansa does not believe this is sheer coincidence.   She overhears the servants whisper that Tywin Lannister rages in his quarters, whispers that the Tyrells are engaging in seditious behavior, but whenever she sees the Queen of Thorns, she merely smiles at Sansa, commenting on the dreadful weather in the Reach.

 

It is the first time that Sansa really understands exactly what sort of moves can be played in the game, even if she has no idea of the strategy of some of the players.

 

Next, Willas Tyrell arrives in Kings Landing.

 

Sansa watches from one of the parapets as a group of riders enter the yard, one of them dismounting with more care than the others. It is raining in the capital, and his companions rush to his side before he falls in the mud, propping him up to prevent him from slipping.   Watching the sight, Sansa realizes she feels nothing towards this potential bridegroom – less revulsion, perhaps, than she does the imp, but very little of anything else. She cannot see his face, does not know his intentions, but the slow, dawning realization of her own worth is making her realize that it is not she that needs to appeal to her would-be suitors, but her suitors that must appeal to her.

 

She does not meet him that night, nor the next one, as he has apparently fallen sick, no doubt caused by the chilly autumn winds and rain that accompanied him from the Reach.   Lady Olenna talks of nothing else but the dismal weather, and Sansa wonders who she is trying to convince anymore.

 

Three days after Willas Tyrell arrives in Kings Landing, the wagons start to resume their normal pace, and nothing is ever mentioned about the weather in the Reach again.

 

…

 

Eventually, Sansa is allowed back to her own quarters, though a Tyrell guard stands outside the door (it will do little to stop the Lannisters should they try and claim her, but the gesture is appreciated nonetheless). She is grateful for her own things, and the relative quiet that comes with not being surrounded by a gaggle of young girls telling her stories of home, filling her head with silly notions about her potential bridegroom.   For the first time in days (nay, weeks) Sansa can relax, can let her smile slip and her shoulders drop, and exhaustion takes over so suddenly that she does not even eat, just crawls into her bed and falls asleep.

 

The next morning, she wakes to find Margaery Tyrell already waiting for her.   The other girl twitters about, fixing her hair and selecting her clothes, and it becomes obvious that today is the day that she will meet Willas Tyrell.

 

She is not nervous. She is not scared (she is scared of so little anymore as it is) and so she lets Margaery dress her, lets her fix her hair, threading jewels into the long strands as she babbles about her brother’s good qualities. Sansa watches herself in the mirror, schooling her features into something pleasant but indifferent. She is still a Stark. He will have to win her favor as much as she might have thought to win his own.

 

Willas Tyrell is affable. He is handsome, in his own way, with brown eyes and brown hair, and a neatly trimmed beard. He does his best to rise to greet her but she knows he cannot, and so she crosses the room to sit near him, to keep him engaged.   Sansa smiles at all the right times, asks just the right questions, remains pleasant but aloof, not fawning over everything he says like other girls at court do (like Margaery does with Joffrey).

 

When Margaery escorts her back to her room, she says just the right things, things that she has practiced saying for the past few weeks (things that convince everyone, that is, except herself).

 

…

 

One day, she is left alone with Lord Willas.   She had been sewing with Margaery, the other girls chattering amongst themselves aimlessly, but their grandmother called to them and they went like a flock of geese, scampering out of the room, Margaery in their wake. She had smiled at Sansa as she left, the sort of nervous smile that was intended to reassure her, but had the opposite effect.

 

For the first time, Sansa is aware that she is alone with him (it is the first time she has been alone with a man since Joffrey).

 

A chill goes up her back, her heart races like a caged bird in her chest, and she sits up straighter, fumbles with her needle. She glances up and over to find Lord Willas looking at her curiously, and Sansa acts without thinking, without considering her words.

 

“What are you looking at?” she remarks harshly, immediately frustrated by her poor choice of words, immediately humiliated by her break in composure (she has been trying so hard, she has been trying so hard - )

 

“Nothing,” he says, shifting in his seat. “Except – “

 

“Except – “ Sansa repeats (she is ready for him to find her out, for him to realize that she is a mediocre player of this game, that she does not know enough to keep her herself safe).

 

“You’re not quite what I thought you would be,” he tells her from his chair. Sansa merely raises an eyebrow and puts her needlework down.

 

“Is that meant to be a compliment, Lord Willas?” she asks, and Willas merely shakes his head.

 

“To be honest, Lady Sansa, I’m not sure what it’s meant to be,” he admits, and Sansa can’t help but laugh, because it is the first think that anyone has said to her in so long that lacks pretense. He is being polite, but there is no veneer of false graciousness, no pleasantries like his sister or mother or grandmother would have (she’s seen it, though, seen the way that he carries himself, seen the way that he scans the room like his grandmother, and she is not sure if he is aware how foolish it is to speak to her like this).

 

“You’re not very good at playing, are you?” she asks, and he looks affronted.

 

“On the contrary, Lady Sansa, I have played this game since I was younger than you are now,” he remarks.   Sansa folds her hands in her lap.

 

“I’m terrible at it, to be sure,” she tells him, the truth slipping out in a carefully calculated way that surprises her (but she has been learning from the Tyrells, has been watching for so long that it seems only natural at this point).   “But I’m tired of being manipulated by one side or the other. Despite what has happened, I am still a lady, and I am still a Stark.”

 

“That you are,” Willas murmurs, so quietly Sansa thinks she might not hear him correctly. “What you need, then, is someone who can help you play the game. A partner, if you will.”

 

Sansa looks up, and at this moment catches his eyes, finds his gaze is not offensive, and not repulsive at all (there is something about the steady way that he looks at her that makes her wonder if she, too, is nothing like she thought he would be.)

 

“Perhaps I do, Lord Willas,” Sansa says quietly. Perhaps she does need a partner to help her survive, and (maybe) win.

 

They say nothing else, and soon Margaery and her cousins are back in the room, babbling about one thing or another, but over the course of the afternoon, Sansa glances over the brown heads of the Tyrell girls, and every time she does, she finds Willas looking back.


End file.
